Residential School
by North-Pau Pau's compass
Summary: When England first took Canada from France he did not know English, so England sent him to a Residential School where they could take out the "Indian in the child".


This was inspired by a First Nations Elder coming to my school to talk about his Residential story, although, I think he got a bit sidetracked because he really just talked about what he thinks of the Residential school idea...my class still appreciates him coming to talk to us though. He talked about some pretty interesting stuff.

Question: Did any other Canadians know that the government made it a law back in 2007 that all Canadian schools have to have an Elder come speak to us? Him telling us that was the first I've heard of it, though it does explain why we get to listen to an Elder every year, even if the teachers and some students say some...stuff about it afterwards, sometimes.

I write this in memory of the Residential School Survivors, and with knowledge that over half of the First Nations children that went in them never made it out alive, and that those who did survive were sexually, emotionally, and physically abused.

If you get the time, look this stuff up, take the time to listen to an Elder talk about their story, or read about some of them through graphic novels like "Sugar Falls". It's tragic what happened to them, and it should be known that there is more to First Nations people than the horrible stereotypes that are said, or the news stories that only cover the bad things that some First Nations people do.

This isn't meant to make people of British descent feel guilty, as what's commonly felt when Residential School stories are talked about, that is never what is meant to happen. This is just meant to make you think of what happened there, and let us move on past it. Like always, we should think at least seven generations ahead, and do we really want those future children to subconsciously look at native people with disgust? Both parties need to move forward, and First Nations people have had to listen to us white peoples side of the story their entire life, we should at least listen to some of theirs.*

*this is not an actual Residential School story. It is merely based off of stories I have heard, and the slapping nun I got from the graphic novel "Sugar Falls", which was beautiful and brought tears to my eyes at some points.

Pretend during the first part of this that they are speaking French. I'm not fluent yet, and I wouldn't want to suck rocks my first time writing anything on here in French.

* * *

><p>Mathew had been helping his First Nation caretakers, the ones that France always left him with while he was away, sweep the floor of the main room to keep the place clean when the door flew open roughly. Into the house marched a man Canada didn't recognize, a man with short and messy hair the colour of a lions and piercing green eyes. It wasn't his papa France. His papa France had beautiful blue eyes and wavy blond hair.<p>

When the man started to move across the room towards him, Mathew saw that his papa was there and following close behind the man. Maybe this man was just a friend of his papa? Even if he was scowling at Mathew, maybe he was just having a bad day, though even the bright smile that Mathew gave the man didn't seem to cheer him up. Even papa France didn't look very happy, and he was avoiding his gaze so Canada couldn't even give him a smile to cheer him up.

France didn't even look at him when he started to speak either. "I am so sorry, Mathieu. You have to go with England now; I have lost the war I was fighting, and his prize for winning is you."

Canada was no longer smiling.

'What? What is he saying? I don't understand.'

Even though he was thinking the question to himself, he didn't want to comprehend what his papa was saying. He didn't want to know what he meant, and for it to be true. Sadly, he did understand what his papa had said.

He was merely lying to himself when he said that he didn't.

The man papa called England came forward then; but, Canada ran to one of his First Nations caretakers, wanting to stay far away from that scowling man that wanted to take him away, and grabbed onto her leg, her skirt material bunching up and wrinkling where he was holding on. If papa wouldn't even look at him, then she was his only comfort.

His other First Nations caretaker, the husband of the lady that he'd grabbed hold of, came forward then to support his wife. He stood behind her, lightly grasping onto her shoulder, and frowned at the white people in the room. He could sense that there'd be trouble ahead.

When Canada darted away, England's gaze immediately hardened.

"Get away from those savages." He ordered Canada.

He spoke in English.

Mathew didn't understand much English; but, he did understand that one word, savage. Papa France had told him how England called his First Nations people that, and he'd also told him that it was a derogatory word. He said it was a very demeaning insult, and England had just said it. Papa France was right, this wasn't a nice person.

Canada wanted to go with him even less.

Canada didn't fully understand what was said; but, he still shook his head determinedly.

"No," he said as well, just in case the not-nice person didn't understand his body language.

England didn't take that as an answer. He marched across the last little bit of the small room, and grabbed Canada's arm.

"Seeing as you seem to like these savages so much, why don't you join them until you learn your mistake?"

Mathew kept glaring at him, even as he felt his chest tighten with dread at the other's words. Despite not knowing what he'd said, the tone that they were said in was enough for him to know that it wasn't good. It was the same tone papa France took before he was punished for bad behaviour.

* * *

><p>Mathew had quickly learned to keep his mouth shut after they had arrived at the Residential School. <strong>They<strong> would hit him every time he didn't speak English; but, speaking French, or Cree, or Dene, or any of his other First Nation languages was just a part of him now, he had to speak them. It was a need that they couldn't understand. He just had to speak them, one or more of them sometimes, or he'd go insane in this cruel place that was trying to brainwash him into being a "cultured person".

This place wasn't making him "better", it was killing him.

Then there were the times that he was caught speaking those "Devil languages" with the First Nation children, that were being forced to go there, by the nuns or priests that "educated" them there.

He was always punished.

They said it was needed to get the Devil out of him, to get the "Indian out of the child", he'd hear them say in such sweet voices around the priest or each other, sometimes even to him; but, he could hear them snickering as they walked away from him sometimes. They didn't care about him at all. They didn't see him, or the First Nations as people. That realization had sickened him when he first arrived at the School, now it was merely a grim truth.

To get the "Indian out of the child" some things needed to be done they'd say.

* * *

><p>The nun's foot swept out at him after he'd been knocked to the ground by her slap and Mathew, having the good sense to dodge it, moved away as fast as he could; but, it wasn't far enough. Instead of hitting the side of his head, it hit the front of his throat.<p>

"I'm only trying to teach you what's right. That dirty language is the work of the Devil." She said as she sneered down at him.

* * *

><p>England came to get him a few days after that had happened.<p>

He seemed surprised at how Canada could barely seem to talk above a whisper; but, that was overridden by his pleasure at hearing Mathew's greeting be in English.

Mathew was a good boy now. A good white boy.

He was England's now, and that's how it would stay.


End file.
